


The Six Million Pillows Man

by ColinFilth



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Chaos Theory, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Mostly pillows; disregard all other tags, Smoking, Trans Male Character, pillows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:04:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColinFilth/pseuds/ColinFilth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, Hermann's room is nothing special. His bed, on the other end, is very, very special.</p><p>Of course, Newt wouldn't be himself if he didn't find a way to turn this revelation into a situation where he could put his foot in his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Six Million Pillows Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chambergambit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chambergambit/gifts).



For all the years that they have worked together, Newt hasn’t actually ever been inside Hermann’s room. Sure, he has wondered about it - idly, not obsessively, because he’s not a ten-year-old girl, like, _not anymore_ , and Hermann’s not captain of the rugby team. Not that Newt ever liked the jock type guys, he liked the pot-bellied molecular biology professor he had in college or the lanky tomboyish girl who drove the school bus when he was ten much, much more. The point is, he’s stared at the contrast between Hermann’s clean, organised desks and his messy, dirty chalkboards and his polished shoes and his ragged threadbare shirts many, many times and wondered, _idly_ then, what Hermann’s living space looked like.

 

(back when they _corresponded_ , actual letters and envelopes and shit, like the dirty little science hipsters they were, Newt sometimes got letters with teacup rings or, once or twice, smudges of ash. But Hermann’s handwriting was precise and regular and perfectly straight, even on blank paper.)

 

So when Hermann finally climbs the few steps to his bunk in the Shatterdome and turns to bark at Newt "Well, are you coming or are you not?", he’s a little bit more excited than any self-respecting ( _oh, shut up_ ) thirty-six-year-old man should be.

 

It’s kind of a huge letdown, to be honest.

 

It’s not a crazy mathematician nest where the walls and floors are covered with numbers, or some kind of German wet dream where everything is bare and spotless and perpendicular to everything. There are a couple pictures on the shelves, and books and papers and a dirty ashtray on the desk, and the air smells like stale smoke and aftershave and chalk. There’s the same stink of stagnated water as in every single Shatterdome bunk, and the slight smell of ammonia they both carry everywhere from the lab. It’s deceptively normal. Even the bed is undone.

 

Oh God, the bed.

 

The bed is covered, absolutely _covered_ , one might even say smothered, in pillows. Newt tries to count them, but keeps having to go back because he just spotted one hiding under a few others. It’s not some lavish display, it’s just a regular bunk bed. With about fifty thousand pillows on it - leave or take a few.

 

Newt must be staring, because Hermann coughs pointedly. When Newt looks at him instead — in a brand new light, because suddenly he’s the Six Million Pillows Man — Hermann rolls his eyes and sits at his desk chair. He gets his tobacco and paper out and starts to roll himself a cigarette, casually, like it’s absolutely normal to have more pillows than probably should exist in the whole post-war world.

 

"That’s a lot of pillows," Newt says finally, and speaking makes it more real, somehow, and he grins. "Like, a _lot_ of 'em. Do you get lonely late at night and cuddle them? Do you have secret pillow cuddling orgies?"

 

Hermann is staring at him with that familiar, unimpressed look he shares with Newt’s uncle (that’s the "Did you really blow up the microwave?" and "Did you really sign up for a third thesis?" look, which strangely his Dad never had, like, that man is a fucking _saint)_ that just means he’s gonna let Newt run his mouth and endure it. Again, it’s a very familiar look.

 

"Are they just decorative? 'Cause I don’t mean to be stingy, dude, but the plaid and the stripes don’t really go together. Do you just put them on the floor when you sleep? I had an ex like that, she had like twelve throw pillows on her bed by day and during the night she’d just put them on the dresser and sleep with two pillows. Once I’d tried to keep one to sleep with and she snatched it out of my hands, what happens if I touch your pillows? Do you keep your diary in one of them?"

 

Hermann’s still not saying nothing, smoke curling out of his nose and around him like a silently fuming dragon. It’s a very fitting look on him.

 

"Is it all like, _Newton did this today_ and _Newton did that_ and _Bollocks, I cannot believe this chap,_ and _Dear diary, today math happened_? Do you cuddle your pillows and think about math? Do you cuddle your pillows and think about _me_?"

 

Hermann huffs out a little smoke, takes a long drag, looks pensively at him (that look means "What am I ever going to do with you?", that’s Newt’s uncle’s look, too) and finally says:

 

"They are a practical and inexpensive way to stay the slightest bit comfortable when my hip gets painful before bed."

 

And Newt’s heart breaks in a little million pieces.

 

"Dude—"

 

"Yes. Yes, you’re very sorry. You did not know, you did not _think_ , and this is precisely the issue and, I shall think, will remain the issue, dear." Hermann stubs out his cigarette and rises (leaning on his cane, even to take the few steps to the bed, Newt feels like _shit_ ) to sit  on the bed and unlace his shoes, slowly and methodically. He peels off his socks next and Newt pushes down the little spark of joy (and arousal, shut _up_ , now’s not the time) when Hermann rolls his ankle and wriggles his toes. "But yes - you did not know. And I probably would not have explained."

 

"Nah, you wouldn’t have," Newt says hesitantly, like a grounded child hesitant to speak again. "You never say _anything_ , dude."

 

"And you say everything, love, even what you shouldn’t."

 

Newt starts to feel a little silly standing in his jacket and boots when Hermann goes to unbutton his shirt after taking off his sweater, so he shrugs off his jacket and sits on the desk chair. 

 

"What are you doing?" Hermann says sharply when he notices, frowning at Newt like he’s dense. "Come over here."

 

"In your pillow nest?" Newt teases hesitantly, kicking off his boots and loosening his tie before sitting next to Hermann.

 

The only answer he gets is the clanging of Hermann’s belt as he works it out of the loops of his slacks, so Newt takes off his pants, too, and yanks uncomfortably on his boxers as if he could make them longer. 

 

"I’m sure you know birds of prey often use the bones of their kills to add to their nests," Hermann says, and this is apparently some kind of foreplay, because he kisses Newt next, chastely. The kisses are becoming more and more familiar too, and Newt kisses back simply and easily, winding his fingers around Hermann’s loosely.

 

Gently, he pushes him against the fleet of pillows, where Hermann sinks comfortably. They kiss for a bit and it’s nice, easy, even when Hermann tastes like cold ashes and Newt probably still like his tenth coffee. Past thirty and past the non-end of the world, Newt guesses standards lower a bit. His haven’t, obviously.

 

"No," Hermann says when Newt starts to unconsciously crawl over him, with somewhat of a wince that makes Newt immediately pull back and away, letting go of Hermann’s hands and putting inches between them that Hermann closes as soon as he does by taking ahold of his face and kissing him lightly, once. "This hasn’t been a very good day."

 

 And because Newt sometimes lacks a few spoons, too, he just says "Okay."

 

"I’d like it if you still stayed."

 

"Sure," Newt replies immediately, so quick it’s embarrassing. "This way you don’t have to cuddle your pillows tonight."

 

Hermann half-snorts in that way he does when he wants to laugh, but lacks the capacity to do so, as a German-British mathematician, and doesn’t want anyone to know he actually found something amusing. "I am thirty-seven. I do not _cuddle_."

 

"Sure you don’t," Newt coos, and he curls an arm around Hermann, worms the other under his neck, and brushes their toes together. Cuddling 101, tutoring Hermann Gottlieb. "I like your room," he says, to save Hermann the embarrassment of having to admit he’s currently nuzzling into Newt’s chest.

 

"It’s a bit, ah, chaotic," Hermann mumbles against him.

 

"That’s not even what chaotic means. You’re a mathematician, you should know that."

 

"Oh, I’m sorry, I was not aware you had an Nth doctorate in chaos theory."

 

"Nah, I just watched _Jurassic Park_ like, as you say, Count, N times." Newt moves and scoots down a bit, until their positions are reversed and his nose is touching Hermann’s neck. "See — chaos theory, it’s like—"

 

"Do _not_ pour water on me—"

 

"— _it’s like_ , if I kiss you right there, and then again, which way will the shiver go…?"

 

They’re scientists. Newt goes on with the experiment.

 

(the shiver, as completely unpredicted and unpredictable, goes two different ways.)


End file.
